


Three's Company

by orphan_account



Series: Better with Three [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, John is emotionally tone deaf, M/M, Multi, OT3, Polyamory, Relationship Confusion, Relationship Discussions, Smut, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything seems to be going well, only Sherlock's stinking up the flat, Lestrade gets caught up in a big (boring!) case and John is developing feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd and Brit-pick'd by the beautiful [Holes in the Sky](http://theresholesinthesky.tumblr.com/), thanks lovely! 
> 
> Written pre-series 3, no spoilers or references.

“Sherlock is trying to kill me,” John said, in lieu of a greeting. Lestrade laughed and ushered John inside, taking his coat. “Or he might be trying to drive me into killing him, it’s hard to say.”

“What’s he done this time?” Lestrade asked. He gestured for John to sit. “Tea or beer?”

John flopped down on Lestrade’s sofa and ran a hand over his face. It gave Lestrade a little thrill of pleasure seeing John so comfortable in his flat. Neither Sherlock nor John had spent much time in it, generally just stopping for long enough to drag him away to help with Sherlock’s case. Occasionally he was dragged away for for dinner and there was even one disastrous night of musical theatre, but they never seemed to stay for longer than a cup of tea or convoluted explanation. 

“Tea,” John said. He started taking off his shoes. “Someone, who I will have to track down and kill later, sent Sherlock an email claiming three unrelated people died after being exposed to a smell emanating from the basement flat in her building.”

“Ah,” Lestrade said. “I take it two-two-one’s less than inhabitable right now, then?”

“I told him people couldn’t die from smells, but instead of putting away the rotten eggs, fetid mouse and Christ only knows what else he’s found, he gave me that condescending look and told me that was ‘precisely the point’,” John said. Lestrade dumped two teabags into mugs and filled them with hot water.

“When he says that to me, it usually means the paperwork is about to double,” Lestrade said. “And I’m going to have to come up with some pretty convincing bullshit if I want to keep my job.”

John laughed and Lestrade felt strangely pleased with himself. He rarely even saw John smile when Sherlock wasn’t around. Not that he saw John without Sherlock very often, but the difference was always noticeable. It was satisfying to think he could elicit the same mischievous delight, the easy, full bodied laugh, his eyes crinkling and amusement lingering in the corner of his mouth.

“Do you mind if I stay the night?” John asked. Lestrade removed the tea bags and added milk to the mugs, grateful that he didn’t pick them up before John added, playfully, “I can make it worth your while.”

It was ridiculous. He and John had slept together before, more than a few times, yet he felt an almost adolescent thrill run through him at this suggestion. Perhaps it was because in the past it had been with Sherlock, at Sherlock’s urging, Sherlock’s pace, Sherlock’s decision. Lestrade knew, theoretically, that it was allowed within their arrangement for him to sleep with John without Sherlock being present, but he had never really considered that it would happen. That John would want to. That it was anything more than a way for Sherlock and John to have sex without him and not feel guilty. Which was absurd, the thought that they owed him something, that he wasn’t just happy to be included, to be desired by these men, involved in their lives and their beds.

But now John was looking at him, just him, pleasure, mischief and arousal clear in the glint in his eyes, in his growing smirk, in the way his eyes kept dropping to Lestrade’s mouth. 

“Can you now?” Lestrade replied, trying to keep his voice light and easy. He picked up the mugs and walked with careful steadiness, setting them down and sitting close to John, their legs pressing together. John dropped a hand onto Lestrade’s knee, just resting it there, a warm weight.

“We don’t have to,” John said, head tilting and expression turning serious, hints of hesitation and concern bleeding through. “If you don’t want to, without Sherlock, I don’t expect... anything. It’s fine.”

Lestrade let out a short laugh, unable to believe that John wanted him, really wanted him, and was working so hard to hide his disappointment that Lestrade might not want him back. John’s eyebrows drew together in confusion at Lestrade’s response, but Lestrade moved in to kiss him before he could start to say anything. Lestrade’s hands framed John’s face, and John’s moved to settle at Lestrade’s waist. Their lips moved slowly, softly, with no urgency, desire building gradually. John broke the kiss to say,

“Do you have any baked beans? Or pasta?”

“Christ, and I thought sex with Sherlock was a bit strange,” Lestrade replied, looking a bit disgusted even as he laughed.

“I was offering to cook you a gourmet meal,” John said, mock offended. “Although if you have other ideas...”

“I really, really don’t,” Lestrade said. “All I can think about is the mess it would make. I’ll grab the takeaway menus.”

John sunk back into the sofa and idly watched as Lestrade rummaged through his kitchen and then flipped through the menus. He interjected only with comments of not wanting Thai and asking if Sherlock had explained his method for selecting the perfect Chinese. Lestrade ordered and came back to sit next to John, further away this time, keeping them separate, a distance more appropriate for mates. If John noticed, he didn’t comment on it, which Lestrade was grateful for. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to do so, why he couldn’t bridge the gap between the relationship he had with John outside the bedroom and the one he had within. Sherlock left no room for questions about where he stood with each of them, and Lestrade hadn’t realised until now, faced with several hours alone with John, what a difference his presence made.

They ate dinner companionably, talking easily about work and football and even sharing snippets of their more private affairs, Lestrade’s marriage breakdown, John’s sister’s drinking. Anecdotes of Sherlock were shared when they came up in conversation, but they didn’t rely on them to avoid awkward pauses. It was pleasant, comfortable and easily intimate. Never a man prone to jealousy, Lestrade didn’t worry that John might wish Sherlock was here, he simply enjoyed the way John shifted so their legs were touching and their arms brushed when they reached for more food. The way John stole bits of food and forced Lestrade to take bites in return. The way John’s mouth moved, lips wrapping around his fork, tongue darting out, small noises of pleasure escaping every so often. Then, once the food was mostly finished, the way John’s eyes lingered on Lestrade’s lips, his hand dropping to smooth up and down the inside of Lestrade’s thigh, head tilting to the side and mouth curling into a smirk.

“Early night?” he asked. Lestrade grinned, moving their plates away and turning to crowd John against the sofa.

“I think we’d better,” Lestrade said, nipping at John’s ear. “Some of us are going to be up early dealing with the mess your detective has made of my investigation.”

“He’s not just my detective,” John said, smiling softly. “Although if this is about Evans’s broken leg, I have to take credit for that.”

“I didn’t hear that,” Lestrade groaned.

John moved out from under Lestrade and stood up, tugging Lestrade up after him, wrapping one hand around his neck, to pull him in for a kiss, and the other around his waist, so he could press their groins together. Lestrade let out a pleased gasp, enjoying the sensation of John growing hard against him. John gave Lestrade’s bottom lip a pleased nip, before releasing him, turning and heading for Lestrade’s bedroom. 

Lestrade glanced at the leftovers and sighed, packing them up into the fridge, and rinsing the plates before following, hoping this wasn’t what his ex-wife had meant about the romance going out of a relationship. Not that he and John had a romantic relationship, exactly. At least, not in that sort of a way.

“Sorry, I just had to-” Lestrade cut himself off at the sight of John stretched out, naked, on his bed, looking oddly pleased with himself. “Have you been taking sex advice from Sherlock?”

John gave a startled laugh. “Too much?” he asked. Lestrade shook his head and grinned, starting to unbutton his shirt.

“Nah,” Lestrade said. He hesitated slightly, but deciding honesty about sexual preferences was more important in the long run than avoiding slight embarrassment or awkwardness, he admitted, “I just enjoy undressing each other. It’s a nice way to start.”

John nodded and sat up, moving to kneel in front of Lestrade and taking over undressing him. Unsure what to do with his hands, as John was already naked, Lestrade placed them on John’s waist and softly stroked, exploring the now familiar skin.

“Fair enough,” John said. He tugged Lestrade’s vest off, kissing along his bare shoulders as he started undoing Lestrade’s belt. “I suppose I just guess I’m used to Sherlock making it pretty clear that when it comes to sex, clothes are the enemy.”

Lestrade laughed, thinking about Sherlock’s impatience, a few torn articles of clothing coming to mind.

“Have you two-” Lestrade started to ask, unthinking. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“Have we slept together?” John finished. “Without you, I mean?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Of course you have. And that’s fine, I don’t mind, I was just wondering.”

John pulled his top lip in with his tongue, frowning slightly. “We haven’t, actually.”

“Really?” Lestrade said, surprised. Releasing that was slightly tactless, he hastily added, “I suppose he’s just been caught up with cases and stinking out your flat.”

“Not to mention shagging us both when the mood catches him,” John added.

“Right, sorry,” Lestrade said.

“What are you apologising for?” John asked, sounding genuinely confused. “You’re hardly in the way, and I’m definitely not complaining. I haven’t really thought about why Sherlock and I haven’t slept together, alone, but it’s certainly not your fault. There hasn’t been much time for that, and hell, maybe he doesn’t like sleeping with one person at a time.”

John shrugged and tugged Lestrade’s trousers and pants down, letting him step out of them, a bit disappointed to find Lestrade had softened slightly, but unsurprised as he was in a similar state.

“Maybe Sherlock and I will sleep together, maybe we won’t,” John said, trying to sound dismissive. He gave Lestrade a mischievous grin. “But I for one don’t mind sleeping with one person at a time, and I fully intend to enjoy doing just that tonight.”

John dropped one hand to tug Lestrade back to full hardness, sliding the other through his hair as he kissed him, gentle, purposeful and thorough. Lestrade moved his own hands down to massage John’s bum, shuddering and gasping as John teased. He let his mind drift on the sensations of John desiring him, not thinking about their complicated relationship, just taking John at his word and following suit, looking for nothing more than the pleasure of being intimate with him. 

Lestrade nudged John back, not minding when his cock was released so John could lie down, moving instead to press their erections together as he straddled John’s thighs and dropped his chest down to rest on John’s, bringing their lips together, swallowing John’s gasps and groaning into his mouth. Lestrade kissed along John’s jaw, dragging his teeth down his neck, before sitting up and reaching for the lubricant John had helpfully left on the pillow.

“I just realised I still have my socks on,” Lestrade said, squirting lubricant into his hand and then pulling at their cocks. “Isn’t that a sexual faux pas?”

John laughed, propping himself up on his elbows and craning his head to see Lestrade’s socked feet.

“It probably is, but I have learned never to criticise someone when they are holding your dick,” John said, grinning. He shifted his hips to encourage Lestrade to take said dick more seriously. 

“Oh?” Lestrade said. “And what happened?”

John’s response was lost in a shuddered gasp as Lestrade rocked his hips, pressing them together as his fingers moved more purposefully.

“What was that?” Lestrade said, smirking. “I didn’t catch that.”

John went to speak but Lestrade rolled again, pulling firmly with one hand, the other moving in to massage John’s balls. John reached up a hand, grabbing Lestrade’s wrist, but not moving to assist or halt his actions. Lestrade grinned and leaned down to kiss John, but John pushed at his shoulder and flipped them. Taking advantage of Lestrade’s slight disorientation and his new position, John grabbed Lestrade’s cock and pulled, rubbed and teased until Lestrade was shuddering. Just as Lestrade was starting to let out little cries of pleasure, John scraped his nails gently down Lestrade’s now quite sensitive cock, pinching gently at his balls. Lestrade’s hips bucked and he groaned.

“Just imagine that, but a lot harder with much sharper nails,” John said.

“Oh god,” Lestrade said. John grinned and leaned down to kiss him, feeling pleased as the kiss grew sloppier and sloppier with every flick of his wrist and move of his fingers, until finally Lestrade came, shuddering and gasping John’s name into his mouth. 

Enjoying the state he had brought Lestrade to, John settled down beside him, leisurely pulling himself off, Lestrade’s hand coming down to help once he had recovered somewhat, and John came quietly, bucking into Lestrade’s hip and joining the mess on Lestrade’s stomach.

 

They lay comfortably together until the glow of their orgasms wore off and, sticky and sweaty, they got up, taking turns in the shower, brushing their teeth and pulling on sleep clothes.

“You won’t take it as a slight against your sexual prowess if I say half-eight is too early for bed?” John asked, giving Lestrade an almost rueful grin. Lestrade laughed. 

“Nah, I’ll be up for hours yet,” Lestrade said. “I’ve got some work I need to finish and there’s dishes to be done. Mind if I just leave you in front of the telly?”

The rest of the night passed slowly, peaceful as it never was in 221 and though mostly spent in silence, it was less lonely than Lestrade had become used to. This sort of quiet company was something Lestrade had been missing since he separated from his wife, something that had been missing in the last few years of his marriage. They stumbled sleepily into bed a few hours later, taking a handful of moments to work out how they slotted together without Sherlock, before drifting off into an easy sleep.

 

The next morning, Lestrade had left for work when John woke up. He was taken aback by how disappointed he felt to be waking alone, particularly as he and Sherlock didn’t tend to share a bed unless Lestrade was over so waking alone was a fairly normal occurrence. On the pillow beside him, John was surprised to find a note, the sight of it reminiscent of the one night stands of his younger years. 

_John, I’ve left for work, didn’t want to wake you. There’s a key on the kitchen table (it’s the spare so don’t worry about getting it back to me in a hurry), help yourself to breakfast and coffee and lock up when you go. Thank you for last night. Greg._

John frowned at the note. It felt off, somehow, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. He gave a shrug and decided to put it out of his mind, although he took took the note with him when he left.

*

“Did you have a good time with Lestrade?” Sherlock asked as John walked in. John froze, a sudden feeling of guilt overcoming him, but it was quickly replaced by indignation and he had his mouth open to defend himself before he realised Sherlock wasn’t upset. There was no accusation in Sherlock’s tone, no jealousy in his gaze, no tension in his stance, nothing but genuine, surprisingly friendly, curiosity.

“Yeah,” John said. He took a sniff. “The flat smells normal again.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. “I managed to eliminate the most obvious causes for the mysterious smell, but it has become apparent that I will need to conduct the rest of the experiment somewhere else.”

“Mrs Hudson shouted at you?” John asked, his lips curling in a wry smile.

Sherlock make a dismissive noise. “More importantly the cross contamination risked rendering the data useless.”

John chuckled, giving Sherlock a brief peck before going to make tea.

“I expected you to be in a better mood than this,” Sherlock said. John looked at him, frowning.

“See how I am not yelling at you for filling the flat with noxious smells and upsetting Mrs Hudson?” John said. “How I am instead making you tea? Nothing wrong with my mood.”

“You had a good time with Lestrade,” Sherlock said.

“I said that,” John said, feeling himself grow inexplicably tense.

“You had sex,” Sherlock said. John turned to him, frowning.

“We did,” he said. “Which is within our agreement. If that’s a problem, we need to talk about it, but you have no right to be angry with me about last night.”

“I’m not cross with you,” Sherlock said. “I _am_ puzzled by your sudden defensiveness, though. I haven’t said or done anything to imply accusations of betrayal, nor am I in the slightest bit jealous.”

“Good,” John said, nodding shortly, but unable to regain his earlier good mood. Or, at least, his earlier contentment.

“The sex was adequately satisfactory,” Sherlock said, musingly, looking over John. 

“High praise,” John said. “I’ll be sure to pass it on. ‘Greg, you were so good in bed last night even Sherlock could tell just by looking at me how adequately satisfactory the sex was.’ He’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.”

“Tell him what you like,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. He made a thoughtful humming sound. “‘Last night.’ So you intend to talk to him today, then?”

“Christ, you sound like my mum,” John said. He paused and looked at Sherlock. “This wasn’t... You haven’t been trying to set us up? This hasn’t been some absurdly convoluted plan to get me and Greg to date?”

“No,” Sherlock said sharply. “I don’t care if you and Lestrade have sex without me, as long as you continue to have sex _with_ me.”

John nodded. “Okay. That’s what I want, too.”

He looked at Sherlock, Lestrade’s assumption that he and Sherlock were sleeping together coming to mind, and it suddenly seemed like a problem in a way it never had.

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

“When you say-” John stopped himself. “Do you want to have sex with me? Just me, I mean. Greg thought we were sleeping together and we haven’t been and now I don’t know why.”

Sherlock groaned. 

“I thought we had dealt with all of this emotional drivel when we started,” he said in disgust. “I desire your company, in both sexual and non-sexual circumstances. Equally, I desire Lestrade’s company in both circumstances, though of course it is different to my desire for you. I am happy to have sex with just you if I am sexually aroused and you are the only one around, but logically where sex is good between two people, it is better with three.”

John clenched and unclenched his fist, forcing himself to breathe calmly. 

“Of course,” he said. “Sleeping with two of us, logically better than just one. So I imagine you will be finding a third person when sex with us gets boring? If you intend to get more than four sexual partners, we’re definitely going to need a bigger bed, we barely fit as is, and give us plenty of warning, yeah? We’re going to need to stock up on condoms and lube.”

Sherlock seemed genuinely baffled. “Why on earth would I want to sleep with anyone who wasn’t you or Lestrade?”

John felt himself soften, tension leaking out of him as suddenly as it had arrived. He moved in to cup Sherlock’s cheek and kissed him softly. 

“Oh,” John said. “This is just you wanting us both, not you wanting more.”

“I just said that,” Sherlock said. “Honestly, John, some days I despair over you.”

John smiled. “To be fair, I despair over you most days.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.

“As for whatever nonsense you are reading into your relationship with Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “I thought we made it clear when we started that you both desire each other sexually and even you must have noticed your easy rapport and growing closeness. You are sexually compatible, enjoy each other’s company, your lives include a large amount of overlap, notably myself and our work. Stop worrying about nothing. Everything is fine.”

“Things aren’t always that simple, Sherlock,” John said wistfully. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Fine, make your relationship with Lestrade complicated,” Sherlock said, stepping away from John and heading for the kitchen. He paused and turned back. “Do you want to have sex now?”

John let out a startled laugh. “No, thanks Sherlock, but I’m fine.”

Sherlock nodded, saying, “Excellent, I have some research to do on odorous airborne poisons.”

John watched him fondly for a few moments before his thoughts turned to Lestrade. 

The night before had been great. Easy, comfortable, fun. If he was honest, better than he had expected. It hadn’t just been an escape from Sherlock’s latest flat-destroying experiment, just friends getting together for a shag, it had been more intimate. More serious. Closer to a proper date, closer than any of the actual dates he had been going on before giving himself up as far more involved with his flatmate than he should be.

“Stop fretting, it’s distracting,” Sherlock complained, not looking up from his laptop.

“I’m not fretting,” John protested. 

“Then don’t fret more quietly,” Sherlock said. “Or further away. Go see Lestrade.”

“I know you might find it hard to believe, but Greg does have a job,” John said. “I can’t just interrupt him.”

“He hasn’t called me in, so it can’t be anything interesting,” Sherlock said.

“He’s probably flat out trying to clean up the mess from the last case,” John said.

Sherlock looked up. “What mess? We caught Evans, didn’t we?”

“I think he’s going to have a hard time explaining _how_ ,” John said. “Not too mention the complaints he’s going to get from the disgruntled parents of sixteen traumatised nine-year-olds.”

“They weren’t _traumatised_ ,” Sherlock said. “They were delighted.”

“Yes, well, most parents assume witnessing two strange men, one armed, chasing your teacher out of the classroom is traumatic,” John said. 

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said. “They cheered, didn’t they?”

“I’m sure their parents will feel better when Greg tells them that,” John said. “What do you think I should call this one, then? On the blog, I mean. ‘A Lesson in Murder’?”

Sherlock groaned. “If you insist on giving it a title, it should at least relate to the interesting part of the case. The murder itself was utterly mundane, and hardly educational.”

“Somehow ‘An Interesting New Method for Disguising Your Cousin-In-Law’s Corpse Using a Lot of Vinegar, a Ball of Twine and Three Fresh Peacock Feathers’ is not quite as snappy a title,” John said. 

“That is not what happened!” Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up and starting to explain the whole solution again.

John walked over to his desk, hiding his grin from Sherlock, and pulled out his laptop, feeling less unsettled. Winding Sherlock up, bickering and being amazed was safe, familiar ground. The sudden improvement of his sex life over the last few weeks had been great, but as much as he was enjoying it all, it was starting to make him feel slightly off kilter. Which was probably why Lestrade’s note this morning had left him questioning their comfortable arrangement. He decided he needed to spend the day soaking in 221’s bizarre brand of normalcy, and then he could go see Lestrade when he was finishing work, return the key and remind himself last night hadn’t been an awkward one night stand between friends, but an enjoyable aspect of the arrangement between the three of them. John wasn’t going to waste time trying to define it, explain it or understand it.

*

“Brought you a coffee,” John said, later that afternoon. Lestrade looked up from his desk, looking strained but gave a genuine smile at the sight of John and caffeine.

“Cheers,” Lestrade said. John sat down in the chair opposite and handed Lestrade the coffee.

“Busy day?” John said. 

Lestrade grimaced. “Hellish.”

“Anything I can help with?” John said. Lestrade shook his head.

“Nah, no mysteries today,” Lestrade said. “Just ordinary, people killing each other in boringly horrible ways.”

John winced in sympathy. “Sometimes I think Sherlock has the right idea, just taking the interesting cases. Some of the worst things I’ve seen are the most mundane. Do you want to go out for a pint and talk about it?”

Lestrade shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. “I think I just want to call it an early night.”

John licked his lips, thinking. 

“Do you want to come back to two-two-one?” he asked carefully. “Or we could come over to yours?”

Lestrade smiled at him gratefully. “I could use some company tonight, I think. I take it the flat is back to being habitable, then?”

John gave a short laugh. “Yeah, I gather Mrs Hudson went right off at Sherlock, so the research has turned theoretical.”

“I’ll come home with you, then,” Lestrade said. “Seems easier than dragging you two out to my place.”

“I’d say it’s no problem, but you never really know with Sherlock,” John said, rolling his eyes, but unable to stop his lips curving into a fond smile. “He might decide your flat is the perfect place to see if the smell of decomposing livers can kill someone.” 

This would have been the ideal moment to remind Lestrade he had lent John a key to his flat, but John was strangely reluctant to give it back. It had been such a casual gesture of trust and intimacy, the sort that John hadn’t experienced in a long time. The moment passed and he was spared from having to bring up the key by Lestrade saying,

“I wish I could say that was the worst thing someone had done to my flat. I had an ex who did not take the break up well.”

“I think it’s worse with Sherlock, because he wouldn’t be doing it out of spite,” John said. “He wouldn’t think it was strange at all.”

“He might even think it was romantic,” Lestrade said, giving a slightly horrified laugh. John smiled faintly back, his eyebrows drawing in as he struggled to picture Sherlock being romantic. It wasn’t that he expected Sherlock to come up with amusing and disturbing displays of affection, Sherlock could be incredibly insightful when it came to John and so any romantic gestures would undoubtedly be personal enough to be quite sweet. John simply found it impossible to imagine Sherlock cared about romance, thought it at all important or relevant to their relationship.

“Maybe it’s for the best that Sherlock doesn’t do romance, then,” John said, lightly.

“Doesn’t do romance?” Lestrade repeated incredulously. “Granted, it’s not always the most typical sort of stuff, but you can’t honestly tell me you haven’t noticed that Sherlock insists on having you around, takes an awful lot of cases with some medical or military aspect, or, and I don’t know about these, ones that require you to shoot people? He refuses to drink tea you haven’t made, talks to you even when you’re not around, glares at people who bore you. Hell, when was the last time you went out for a meal and paid for it? Sherlock hardly goes to restaurants because he’s hungry.”

John stared at Lestrade. It was true that Sherlock had quickly accommodated John into his life, allowed him to become ingrained, an essential. As they grew closer and their interactions had started to hint at both desiring something quite different from friendship, John had become aware that Sherlock did, whether consciously or not, start treating John in a manner one could call romantic, but Sherlock wasn’t interested in romance. 

John had become certain of this when Sherlock had insisted Lestrade join them that day in the cabin, right as they were about to shift their relationship from close friends and flatmates to lovers. Apparently the idea of dealing with the intense intimacy of sleeping with John had disturbed Sherlock, even if the idea of sex still appealed. John had accepted this. If he couldn’t have Sherlock fully, in the way he wanted, he could at least have him in this way. It was still a step closer, better than nothing.

Looking at Lestrade now, though, John felt almost guilty at these thoughts. Having Lestrade present didn’t exactly make things less intimate with Sherlock and at no point over the last few weeks had John felt like he was settling for scraps of Sherlock. The phrase that had upset John so much that morning came to him, ‘better with three’. He had a sudden moment of insight, understanding at last what Sherlock had meant. It was more than just getting to experience two partners, more than just being saved choosing one over the other. Seeing Sherlock with Lestrade was arousing, yes, but it was also enjoyable on a whole different level. A level John was still finding difficult to understand. It was something he had felt at times with old girlfriends, something he had struggled with when he first felt it for Sherlock, but something he had never expected to feel watching two people he cared for interact, something he didn’t know he could feel just thinking about Lestrade with Sherlock.

“Yeah,” John said vaguely, not able to quite remember what Lestrade had just said.

“You alright?” Lestrade said. “I know it threw me a bit when I realised Sherlock wasn’t always a total prick, but I wouldn’t have thought you would be so shocked to find he can occasionally be romantic. I wasn’t sleeping with him at the time, after all.”

John forced a laugh. “You also didn’t live with him. Just wait until you wake up to find all of your pants being used to test how semen stains react to different chemicals.”

Lestrade grinned. 

“What’s the bet he stole them to seduce you and got distracted?” Lestrade dropped his voice down an octave. “‘John, come with me, quickly. I require all your pants and a supply of ejaculate, a man’s alibi is at stake!’”

“You give him far too much credit for seduction technique,” John said.

“Well, it’s hardly difficult to get you into bed,” Lestrade said, smirking.

John glanced at the closed door and covered window before crossing around the desk to slide a hand up Lestrade’s shoulder, settling on his nape and pulling their faces close.

“Come back to two-two-one and we’ll test that theory,” John said.

*

“Why didn’t you bring Lestrade home with you?” Sherlock demanded as John walked through the door, not bothering to rise from the sofa. John rolled his eyes, hanging up his jacket and crossing over to the kitchen. 

“Because he isn’t a puppy,” John said, filling the kettle. Sherlock tipped his head back slightly to glare at him. “He’s finishing off some work and coming soon. No point in me hanging around when we’re just going to travel separately. You know he doesn’t want people at the Yard to know about us.”

Sherlock huffed, closing his eyes, and settling back down. “An inconvenient fact I have managed to keep in mind.”

“It’s hardly inconvenient if it means he keeps his job and we are still allowed onto crime scenes,” John pointed out. He pulled down two mugs and put a teabag in each.

“I fail to see how his personal relationships are of any business to Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said. “If anything, they should be pleased he is sleeping with me, I imagine they have noticed a remarkable upswing in his work as a result of the exposure to my methods.”

“The fact that his is sleeping with _you_ is precisely the point,” John said. “Bad enough he lets you in on cases as an unofficial consulting detective, at least if it’s a professional relationship people will just look at the results you get. Greg could get into serious trouble if people thought he was letting you into crime scenes so he could get into your pants.”

“My sexual appeal has nothing to do with Lestrade bringing me in to solve his cases,” Sherlock said, sounding quite miffed at the idea. John chuckled, walking over to the sofa and leaning down to drop a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth.

“So you don’t think there’s another genius detective out there who could solve cases faster than you but doesn’t wear overly tight shirts?” John asked, smiling, amused by the look of indignation Sherlock gave him.

“Though my methods of deduction are a simple matter of observation and logic, I’ve yet to see anyone manage to apply them with any degree of success,” Sherlock said.

“And the tight shirts?” John said, fiddling with one of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock pushed his hand away.

“My shirts are fine, you are just overly interested in sex,” Sherlock said. John slid his hand down to settle Sherlock’s waist, taking a moment to to enjoy the sensation of the fabric and the warmth of Sherlock’s skin bleeding through. For a long time, longer than he had realised, John had been wanting to have this sort of casual intimacy with Sherlock, to be allowed to touch without fear of overstepping lines. Sherlock looked down at John’s hand and then back up to study John’s face, as though trying to parse what he was doing. Feeling slightly wrong footed, John withdrew his hand and turned abruptly back to the kitchen.

John finished making the tea in silence, placing Sherlock’s mug on the coffee table and settling down into his armchair with a medical journal he had been wanting to read.

Spending the evening ensconced in silence was nothing new for John and Sherlock. Whether it was the comfortable companionable silence of close friends, the tense, high energy silence that came when Sherlock was solving cases, the easy to ignore silence of a sulking Sherlock, or the heavy, draining silences when they tried to process things going wrong in the high stakes games they played, silence was no longer something John feared. 

This silence, though, was different. Sherlock didn’t seem annoyed or upset, but John felt distinctly uncomfortable and almost embarrassed, as though he had been caught breaking the rules of a game he didn’t yet understand. Then, as the evening wore on, John started to worry about Lestrade, who had implied he would not be far behind John. 

“John,” Sherlock said. John looked up, startled to find that Sherlock had crossed to sit in the other armchair without him noticing, sitting far enough forward that their knees nearly touched, leaning towards John, studying him intently. Then, strangely enough, Sherlock shuffled forward until he was kneeling beside John and reached out a hand, settling it on John’s waist, just above his left hip.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John asked tentatively, when it became clear Sherlock wasn’t going to do anything with his hand. Sherlock nodded and withdrew his hand.

“I thought it was unusual behaviour,” Sherlock said. John blinked at him and then realised Sherlock had been mirroring his own touch from earlier. “I have no aversion to being touched by you, but that particular gesture seemed strange.”

“You’ve been lying there thinking about that for the past two hours?” John said, taken aback.

“Among other things,” Sherlock said dismissively. “And you’ve been sitting there worrying about it, so I think we can agree my time was spent more wisely.”

“I wasn’t worrying about it,” John said defensively. “I just… wasn’t sure what I had done wrong.”

“Nothing wrong,” Sherlock said. “Simply something that did not fit within my previous expectations of physical interaction. A gap which, as you have just shown, was not limited to my understanding of how people interact in a relationship. You were, however, worrying. You’ve been growing increasingly tense over the last hour.”

“I thought Greg would have arrived by now,” John said, putting his journal down and standing, walking awkwardly around Sherlock to head for the kitchen.

“If you’re concerned, send him a text,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “But as it is, I imagine he has talked himself into doing yet more senseless paperwork and lost track of the time.”

John filled the kettle, fussing about with mugs and tea bags before pulling out his phone and staring at it. 

It seemed strange to send Lestrade a text asking him where he was, almost as though he were nagging or checking up on him and John didn’t feel he had the right to do that. As Sherlock had said, he had most likely become caught up in paperwork. Or he simply changed his mind and decided he would prefer an evening alone. He might not have wanted to come around in the first place and just hadn’t known how to turn John down, in which case texting him would seem pushy. On the other hand, if Lestrade were in trouble, the sooner they realised the better the chance they could help him. 

“What are you over thinking now?” Sherlock grumbled, flopping back on the sofa.

“Nothing,” John said, decisively typing out a message and sending it. “Just waiting for the kettle to boil.”

*

John was just contemplating if it would be worth trying to get Sherlock to move so they could sit on the couch together, when they heard footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and Lestrade walked in, dripping wet and looking tired and haggard.

“You alright?” John asked, getting out of his chair to fetch a towel.

“I’m fine,” Lestrade said, peeling his coat off and heeling off his shoes. “I just got caught in some rain following a lead. Some bugger calls up right as I’m about to leave, claiming he had spotted our key suspect lurking in an alley with what looked like a body. I get there, and there’s no one around but this idiot who looked thoroughly put out there wasn’t going to be a media crew showing up to interview him.”

John made a noise of disgust, walking over to hand Lestrade a towel and took his coat.

“Ta,” Lestrade said. “Anyway, I threatened to charge him with wasting police time and he went white, babbling that he really had seen something. It’s absolutely pouring down rain by this point, and when I looked in the skip there was nothing the looked remotely like a body, and the guy finally seems to realise how much serious trouble this could get him in, so I gave him a warning and came straight here.”

“The things people will do for a bit of fame,” John said rolling his eyes.

He took the damp towel from Lestrade and tried to work out if he should mention the text he sent. He didn’t want to nag Lestrade about it, or make him feel guilty for not letting them know where he was, but he would see the text eventually and it seemed better to make it clear it wasn’t a big deal. 

“We were a little worried when you didn’t show up, so there’ll be a text from me on your phone,” John said. “Just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything wrong.”

Lestrade pulled out his phone and looked at it. His face softened and he let out a gentle, “Oh.”

“Didn’t mean to be checking up on you,” John said, feeling awkward.

“No,” Lestrade said. “It’s just been a while since I had someone worrying when I was coming home. I didn’t realise I’d left it on silent, sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” John said. “You’ve had a long day.”

Lestrade gave John a rueful smile, and twisted to stretch his back, his whole body sagging when he straightened again, as though it had realised there was no longer need to hide his exhaustion. “I have at that,” he admitted.

“I’ll draw you a bath,” John offered. Sherlock huffed.

“Baths are boring,” Sherlock said. “How can you stand lying in water doing nothing for so long?”

“Sounds nice,” Lestrade said.

“How is that any different to you lying on the couch doing nothing all day?” John asked. 

“I am hardly doing nothing,” Sherlock said loftily. “By tuning out external distractions I am capable of heightening my thinking process. I can solve more crimes in a day than Lestrade could hope to in a lifetime.”

“Gee, thanks,” Lestrade said dryly. “Good to know what you think of my work.”

Sherlock stood abruptly, stepping over the coffee table and walking over to Lestrade, placing a hand on his arm and looking at him seriously.

“Your contributions to my work are invaluable,” Sherlock said. He gave Lestrade a quick kiss. “How else would I be allowed on crime scenes? John, make Lestrade some tea.”

Sherlock walked back across the living room and picked up his violin. John and Lestrade exchanged a look of fond exasperation before John filled the kettle and Lestrade disappeared into the bathroom.

*

“What is he doing in there?” Sherlock demanded. “He’s been ages. The water must be cold by now.”

“Sherlock, it’s been ten minutes,” John said. “If you miss him that much, go sit in the bathroom and annoy him. He might even let you join him in the bath.” 

“Why would I want to get in there with him?” Sherlock said. “It’s bad enough taking baths, I hardly want to be squashed while doing so.”

“It can be nice taking a bath with someone,” John said idly. Sherlock snorted, sweeping his gaze from John’s feet to his head.

“For someone of your size maybe,” Sherlock said.

“Oi,” John said. “I’m not that small.”

“I still fail to see the appeal,” Sherlock said.

“It’s just a nice intimate thing to do,” John said.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “You’re talking about sex. That seems overly complicated and inefficient.”

“You don’t have to have sex for it to be intimate,” John said, but Sherlock didn’t seem to listening.

“I hope Lestrade hasn’t decided to masturbate in there,” Sherlock said. “I was hoping we would have sex when he finished and it will take far too long if he’s just masturbated.”

“There’s nothing wrong with slow sex,” John said. “It can be nice to not be in a rush.”

Sherlock gave a disbelieving grunt. Then he sat up and gave John an assessing look. “Are you displeased with our current sexual activities?”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John said. “It’s nice that you’re so keen, but maybe just remember there isn’t actually any hurry?”

“But it gets boring if it takes too long,” Sherlock said. John laughed.

“Well, just make sure to let us know if we’re taking too long,” John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes, flopping back down on the sofa.

“How much longer is Lestrade going to take?” Sherlock grumbled, rolling over until he was lying on his stomach.

“Let the man enjoy his bath,” John said. He stood up and walked over to the sofa. When Sherlock made no signs of moving, John put a hand down between Sherlock’s chest and the back of the couch, bracing his weight on it and lowering himself to lie on top of Sherlock.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, twisting his head around to try and see John.

“Distracting you,” John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock tried to shift under John, but found he couldn’t move easily.

“This would be far more enjoyable for you if I was facing you,” Sherlock said. 

John kissed up to Sherlock’s ear, giving it a small nip before saying, “I don’t know, this is rather fun.”

Sherlock huffed, wriggling his hips, though he was unable to displace John, and his attention must have been brought to some evidence that rather backed up John’s assertion that he was enjoying having Sherlock trapped under him as he sucked a sharp breath. John laughed, the sound of it vibrating his chest and Sherlock wriggled again, this time with no apparent purpose or deliberation. With it clear that John was going to allow no escape without a proper fight, Sherlock seemed to give in, sinking into the sofa and trying to reach his head up to John’s for a kiss. John indulged him, leaning in, brushing his lips over the corner of Sherlock’s mouth as he dropped his hips, settling his thighs on either side of Sherlock and using his free hand to smooth circles over Sherlock’s waist. 

It struck John, then, that this was the first time he had been seriously intimate with Sherlock when it was just the two of them. Lestrade’s presence in the next room somehow made it seem less strange, more natural, perhaps because he knew that sexual intimacy was fine when Lestrade was around, and that he would be coming out to join them at any moment. It made the moment seem at once more intensely intimate, as though it were a stolen moment of passion, and less so, more a precursor, a warm up, a distraction. John took a moment to enjoy this closeness for itself, without thinking of the larger picture, the way the rest of the evening might fold out.

He nosed at Sherlock’s cheek, breathing in the scent of him, and squeezed Sherlock’s legs between his thighs, delighting in the sensation that they fit together so well. John slid his hand under Sherlock’s shirt, marvelling at the slight shiver he could feel, not understanding how his presence could affect the man so keenly. Then Sherlock was shifting more deliberately again, and John breathed out, pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s lips and let the moment go.

Their mouths were at the wrong angle to kiss properly, so John mouthed his way back up Sherlock’s jaw, kissing and licking and nuzzling, shifting his hips to press his groin against Sherlock’s arse, and sliding his hand up to find Sherlock’s nipple. As John reached the small dip where Sherlock’s jaw met his neck, John sucked at the skin as he pinched Sherlock’s nipple, grinning at the groan Sherlock released. 

John continued to tease Sherlock, enjoying the sensation of Sherlock moving beneath him and the odd little noises he made, until he found he was starting to grow uncomfortably hard, and rolled off him, sitting back in his own armchair. Sherlock lay still for a few moments after John had moved, breathing slightly too quickly. When he did sit up, Sherlock’s skin was flushed, his eyes dark and he was wearing a look of complete bewilderment. John gave him a fond smile, feeling rather pleased with himself.

“John,” Sherlock whined, and John was satisfied to note the edge of desperation creeping in. “That did not help.”

“I said I was distracting you, not helping,” John said, grinning. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“What precisely did you think you were distracting me from?” Sherlock said.

“You were complaining that Greg was taking too long in the bath,” John said. “I didn’t want you trying to chase him out.”

“I was complaining about Lestrade taking too long in the bath because I want to have sex with you both. As sexual intercourse between three men is not something that would be a comfortable or pleasant experience in a bath, the longer Lestrade takes in the bath, the longer I have to wait before we are having sex,” Sherlock said, not bothering to disguise his condescending tone. “Which means you attempted to distract me from thinking about sex by arousing me. As I said, that is hardly helpful.”

John laughed, saying, “Well, it kept us busy for a little while, and I even managed to keep you relatively quiet.”

Sherlock glared at him.

*

Lestrade emerged from the bathroom wrapped up in one of John’s dressing gowns, rubbing at his hair with a towel. The robe was too small for him, and sat in a manner that would have been quite sexy if it hadn't also been rather comical. It was too short in the sleeves and length, revealing a long stretch of damp thighs, and crossing oddly in the front. The bath had relaxed Lestrade, and he moved cheerfully into the kitchen, tension still visible in his frame, but he no longer radiated stress.

At the sound of the door opening, Sherlock had leapt up and walked over to him, giving him a critical once over and saying, with satisfaction, “You didn’t masturbate, excellent,” before kissing him roughly. He grabbed his arm, tugging him towards his bedroom, and calling, “Come John!” 

Lestrade allowed himself to be towed along by Sherlock, giving a small laugh and turning his head to look at John. “You might have been right about his seduction technique.”

John grinned and rolled his eyes, getting up to follow them. “You know, I think he’s actually getting worse. Do your remember the first time? We each got a kiss, there was a cabin, piles of blankets and pillows in front of a fireplace…” John trailed off with an exaggerated sigh.

“If you want to have sex in front of the fire you either need to clean the carpet or promise you won’t complain about any injuries you sustain,” Sherlock said. He drew Lestrade beside the bed and tried to tug the dressing gown off, but Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s hands, moving them to settle on his hips, using his own to cup Sherlock’s jaw and drew him into a kiss. Sherlock tried to pour his pent up energy into the kiss, but Lestrade kissed slowly, steadily, smoothing a hand through Sherlock’s hair and running the other down his back. When they broke apart, Sherlock undid Lestrade’s robe calmly, moving unusually slowly to slide it off Lestrade’s shoulders. He let Lestrade unbutton his shirt, reaching out to pull John closer so he could undress him at the same time.

“This is the most illogical way of getting undressed,” Sherlock grumbled. John lifted his head to kiss him, and reached to undo Sherlock’s trousers, having shed his own already.

“I don’t know,” Lestrade said, running his fingers over Sherlock’s chest. “It makes sense to me.”

“Yeah,” John added. “I’m far more interested in seeing you naked than seeing myself.”

Sherlock looked pained by this reasoning and nipped John’s bottom lip, shoving his shirt off and pushing him onto the bed. Lestrade laughed as Sherlock shoved his trousers down, kicked them off and tried to leap onto John, only to have John flip him, pinning Sherlock to the bed. When Sherlock tried to roll them over, John simply sat on his thighs and pressed Sherlock’s hands to the bed.

“John,” Sherlock whined, thrusting his hips hopefully. John grinned at Lestrade.

“Were you thinking early night?” John asked. He leaned down to scrape his teeth along Sherlock’s hip, enjoying the sight of Sherlock’s cock twitching in his pants and the sound of Sherlock whimpering with frustration. “Or did we want to draw it out a bit?”

Lestrade stretched out on his side next to Sherlock, propping himself up with his arm and running a finger lightly down Sherlock’s bare chest. Sherlock shivered slightly and glared at each of them in turn.

“Early night,” Lestrade said ruefully. John nodded, smiling softly and released Sherlock’s hands so he could give Lestrade’s thigh a gentle stroke. As soon as his hands were freed, Sherlock reached forward to hook them around John’s knees and try tug him forward. Not bothering to hide his laughter at Sherlock’s look of frustration when he proved immovable, John obligingly shuffled forward until he could press their groins together and leaned down to kiss Sherlock. 

“Is there any reason you two are still wearing pants?” Lestrade asked, pulling himself off lazily.

John broke his kiss with Sherlock to say, “None at all.” He rolled off Sherlock and pulled his pants off. Sherlock hurriedly did the same, and then proceeded to climb on top of Lestrade, pushing Lestrade flat against the bed and thrusting earnestly. Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s hips to slow his motions and wrapped a hand around their erections, moving firmly but slowly.

“Get on with it,” Sherlock snapped. John sat up and crawled to kneel beside Sherlock, adding his hand to Lestrade’s and pulling Sherlock in for a kiss, letting Sherlock pour his urgency into John. Sherlock kissed deeply and desperately, moaning as he rose into climax and panting against John’s mouth as he spent himself, tension and energy bleeding out of him, leaving him relaxed and compliant. He gave John a small, almost sweet kiss, before flopping down and cuddling into Lestrade’s side, nuzzling sleepily into Lestrade’s shoulder. Feeling a little bit desperate himself by this point, John reached down to deal with himself, finding it didn’t take long, and then lay down to curl up on Lestrade’s other side. He reached down to curl his fingers gently around Lestrade’s cock, pulling and teasing, stroking him as he came, and not stopping until Lestrade had grown soft and sensitive and John’s hand was pushed away. 

John had been focussing on the movements of his hand, and was startled when he turned his head to give Lestrade a kiss by the incredibly open and affectionate expression trained on him. Not sure what else to do, John kissed Lestrade swiftly, and then rolled over to find some pants to wipe up the mess covering Lestrade’s stomach. Some of it had grown quite tacky and John used this as an excuse to leave the bed. 

“I’m just going to fetch a washcloth,” John said, slipping away quickly.

Once in the bathroom, John splashed some water on his face, before grabbing a washcloth and running it under the water. He was more than a little taken aback by the intensity of the feelings that rose up when he found Lestrade looking at him like that, with such unabashed fondness. There was no sense of camaraderie, no satisfied smirk, no teasing glint in his eyes. It was just simple affection, deepened by something John couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he suspected was the same thing that made him want to keep touching Lestrade, long after it could be excused as an act of ordinary sexual desire.

“You’re over-thinking this,” John told his reflection firmly. “Greg was just stressed and grateful for the help unwinding. You were worried about him earlier and enjoying the reassurance that your mate is okay. Now, go back in there, have your post-coital cuddle and things will seem normal again in the morning.”

John walked back into the bedroom, letting himself enjoy the sight of Sherlock and Lestrade tangled sleepily together, pushing down the other more intense feelings that rose at the sight of his two men, before crawling back into bed, cleaning up Lestrade and, when he realised the other two were asleep, allowed himself to press a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek and one to Lestrade’s forehead.


	2. Chapter Two

“Wake up John!” Sherlock hissed at some ungodly hour the next morning, shaking John’s shoulder roughly. John groaned and rubbed at his eyes.

“Whatssamatter?” John mumbled, looking blearily at Sherlock, standing next to the bed, fully dressed, eyes alight with excitement. As soon as he saw John was awake, Sherlock withdrew his hand and starting typing rapidly on his phone.

“There’s a new lead on the case!” Sherlock said, keeping his voice low.

“What case?” John asked. Sherlock looked up from his phone for long enough to roll his eyes at John and sigh.

“Theresa Jones’s mysterious odour supposedly capable of killing people,” Sherlock said. 

John yawned and tried to shake himself awake. He looked over to the alarm clock, rubbed his eyes and looked again, disappointed to find it still said four thirty-three.

“What happened?” John asked. “Is she okay?”

“Who? Oh, Theresa, yes, she’s fine,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“What’s the new lead?” John said. “If something’s happened, she should probably call the police, Sherlock.”

“Nothing’s happened,” Sherlock said. “I just realised that Theresa Jones’s flat is still owned by her parents.”

“Right,” John said slowly. “And that’s a new lead, how?”

At this, Lestrade made a small, sleepy noise and rolled over. John held up a hand and climbed out of bed, pulling on his discarded dressing gown before gesturing for Sherlock to leave the room.

“I looked into the identity of the person, or more accurately persons, currently living in the flat emanating the strange smell, and found the Lucy and Harold Gray to be strangely elusive,” Sherlock said, once they were in the kitchen, bedroom door firmly shut. “There was practically no paper trail to be found until nearly two years ago, when they started renting this particular flat.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” John said. “Unless you think they’ve created new identities to kill people? Surely it would have been better to stay unknowns.”

“Which is why I thought I would look into their landlord,” Sherlock said. “A man willing to rent an expensive flat to dubious characters seems strange. The flat is in a good location, and would presumably have had many people interested in it. Why settle for shady characters?”

“They’re in it together?” John asked. He frowned. “How does that work?”

“Not exactly, John,” Sherlock said. He grinned. “The landlord owns the majority of the flats in that building. Though all of the flats are of a roughly similar size, in similar conditions, the prices to rent them vary wildly. The Grays, for instance, are paying a quite exorbitant fee, whereas their neighbours across the hall, are paying less than three-quarters their rate. All of the people who have died were living in flats owned by the Grays’ landlord, and had received a substantial discount.”

“So this is some elaborate scheme to rent flats to murderers and their victims?” John asked. Sherlock shrugged.

“The landlord certainly appears to be facilitating and profiting from criminal behaviour,” Sherlock said. “Though of course it is impossible to know the precise nature and extent of this scheme without further investigation.”

John nodded. “Can we call the police?”

“No,” Sherlock said. “There’s no evidence of any actual wrong-doing at this point.”

“I guess that means we’re going to have to go risk our lives to catch some murdering tenants in the act, save some lives, and then single handedly bring down a landlord using a block of flats to create a sort of crime syndicate,” John said.

The two looked seriously at each other for a moment, and then Sherlock smirked and John laughed and suddenly it was the middle of the night and they were grinning and giggling, hushing each other in turn as they grew louder and louder. When they had managed to calm themselves down, John headed back for the bedroom to get dressed. He stopped at the door and turned to Sherlock.

“Hang on, it’s half-four in the morning,” John said. “When precisely did you figure all of this out?”

“I woke at three when I realised that Theresa Jones had no idea whether the landlord performed inspections of the flats or not,” Sherlock said. “After that I did some digging, and the whole thing became quite clear.”

“You couldn’t have had this revelation at, say, nine in the morning?” John asked. “Let us have a sleep in?”

“Oh sleeping, sleeping is boring,” Sherlock said dismissively. “This is much more fun.”

John sighed, trying to look cross, but he was unable to keep his mouth from curving into a grin.

*

They arrived at the very ordinary looking flats and spent a few hours surveilling the place, working out the movements of the residents, which flat belonged to whom, Sherlock deducing likely suspects. After some signal or sign John failed to notice, and which he suspected might not have existed and was simply Sherlock reaching his threshold for boredom, they moved into action. Theresa Jones buzzed them into the building, and they raced up three flights of stairs. Sherlock pulled out a set of lock picks and John stood guard. When he spotted another resident heading down the stairs towards them, John pulled Sherlock up and shoved him against the door, moving in to snog him enthusiastically. As he expected, the other tenants footsteps increased as they approached, passing them quickly when they sounded suitably far away John broke away from Sherlock. 

Sherlock blinked at him for a few seconds, touching his lips thoughtfully, and then grinned. “Public display of affection, clever. Common enough behaviour to not arouse suspicion or be memorable, while also actively encouraging people to look away, or indeed move away.”

“Yes well, what else could two blokes be doing in a stairwell?” John said, puffing up slightly under Sherlock’s praise.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, turning back to the door. 

*

The flat was full of weaponry, prominently displayed, and the tenant’s girlfriend, hidden in the bedroom. This fact was discovered by John moments before said girlfriend used one of the aforementioned weapons to attack Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” John said, and after a brief scuffle, the girlfriend was tied to a chair using some of the abundant rope lying around.

“Girlfriend!” Sherlock said, sounding annoyed. “She has a girlfriend. Since when do assassins have girlfriends?”

“Now can we call the police?” John asked, panting slightly and running a hand down his side to check for injury.

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “We may have to come up with an explanation for why we are here first.”

John laughed, and the assassin’s girlfriend looked between them, askance. 

*

“Where’s Lestrade?” Sherlock demanded of the DI entering the scene.

“He’s working on the body dumper case,” DI Davies said. Sherlock frowned.

“But that one’s been solved,” Sherlock said. “It’s fairly obviously a lawyer, with rage issues, a smoking habit and a pet bird. With the amount of evidence they have left behind even you lot couldn’t fail to work it out more precisely.”

“We may know the identity of the suspect, Mr Holmes,” Davies said tartly. “But there is a difference between solving mysteries and doing actual police work.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Now, what precisely were you and Doctor Watson doing in that flat?”

*

“We had the wrong flat,” John said, giggling as Sherlock herded him into a taxi. “Our friend bet us fifty quid that you couldn’t pick the lock on her flat’s door. You know DI Thompson didn’t buy a word of it, right?”

“I know,” Sherlock said, grinning at him. “But Theresa Jones backed us up, and besides, she doesn’t want to have to arrest us, we just gave her a huge case, already solved. Well, mostly solved. A huge case she can solve.”

They sat in the taxi, vibrating with energy, smiling and laughing when they caught each other’s eye. When they arrived at 221b, Sherlock left John to pay for the taxi and went quickly upstairs, leaning against the door and looking at John meaningfully when he joined him on the landing.

“What?” John said. “Is something wrong?

“No,” Sherlock said. “I... like what you did at the landing, back at the other flats. You should do it again.”

“What I did... oh,” John said, realisation dawning on his face. He smirked and crowded Sherlock against the door, shoving a leg between Sherlock’s, grabbing Sherlock’s hands and trapping them against the door above him, before bringing their mouths together in a frantic kiss. Sherlock moaned, meeting John’s kisses with desperation, but making no effort to take control of the kiss. John felt Sherlock’s weight drop against the door, and he tightened his grip around Sherlock’s wrists, before moving down to kiss Sherlock’s neck.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, sinking down slightly. John dragged his teeth across Sherlock’s adams apple, sucking a kiss on the other side of his neck.

“Is the coast clear?” John asked, his voice deepened slightly, trying to sound suave. Sherlock shuddered slightly before bursting out laughing. 

“Is the coast-” Sherlock started to say between giggles, but John dropped one hand to open the door, and Sherlock’s weight pushed it open, leaving Sherlock sprawled on the floor. John grinned and knelt down, crawling towards Sherlock until he had one knee between Sherlock’s thighs and his hands braced on either side of Sherlock’s face.

“What was that?” John demanded, smirking, leaning down to nip at Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock’s wrapped his arms around John, shoving him until he rolled over. Once on top, Sherlock started pulling John’s jeans open, and John did the same to Sherlock’s trousers.

“Very suave,” Sherlock said. “I meant to say you’re a regular James Bond.”

“That’s better,” John said, shoving Sherlock’s pants and trousers as far down as he could manage before pulling roughly at Sherlock’s half-hard cock. “Need I remind you who saved whose stupid arse today?”

“My apologies, John,” Sherlock said. “Let me try to make it up to you.”

He wriggled backwards, moving down John’s body, forcing John to relinquish hold of his cock, and stopped when his face reached John’s groin, and tapped John’s hip, saying, “Up!”

John obligingly lifted his hips and Sherlock tugged John’s jeans and pants down, releasing his trapped cock. Sherlock nuzzled John’s thigh, right beside his rapidly growing erection, and looked up at John. This was not the first time they had found themselves in this position, and yet John felt his breath catch at the sight of Sherlock looking up at him, eyes bright with mischief, lips pink from kissing, skin flushed, hair dishevelled. John didn’t spent a lot of time thinking about Sherlock’s looks. His attraction to the man seemed to be routed in something else entirely, something that tasted of danger and tea and far too many limbs. His idea of romance these days involved the satisfaction of a clean kill, that burst of energy that came in the final heartbeats of a chase, the delicious feeling of a puzzle coming together. Yet at that moment, he was overwhelmed with the very unfamiliar sensation of wanting to tell Sherlock he was beautiful.

Instead he reached down to brush Sherlock’s hair away from his face and said, “Come on then, my feelings are still hurt.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He kissed the tip of John’s cock. “Better?”

John laughed and threaded his hands in Sherlock’s hair. “Not even slightly.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Right then.”

And with that, Sherlock started winding John up in earnest. He nuzzled his way around the base of John’s cock, mouthing at his balls and licking a stripe up the shaft, tonguing at the head, before taking John into his mouth and making John shudder and writhe, overwhelmed by the sensations. Just as John felt he couldn’t last any longer, tugging at Sherlock’s hair, trying to pant out that particular sentiment between breathy moans, Sherlock abruptly pulled off him and moved back, sitting up on his knees.

“There,” Sherlock said giving John a satisfied nod and rubbing his hands together. “I think that should more than make up for any offence I may have caused.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John groaned, desperate and cross. 

“Yes, John?” Sherlock said innocently. John sat up and tugged Sherlock into a biting kiss.

“That does not make up for _anything_ ,” John said. Sherlock grinned and stood up to tug his pants and trousers off before kneeling back down, straddling John’s hips, pressing their erections together and wrapping an arm around John’s back to keep him sitting up so he could continue to kiss him. Within a few well timed thrusts, John came, gasping into Sherlock’s mouth. He reached a hand down to tug at Sherlock, but Sherlock pushed it away, continuing to roll his hips, until John had softened, and then he tugged John’s hand down to help finish himself off.

*

That next evening, John ordered too much take-away. When he went to pack up the left-overs, he was frustrated to find it didn’t all fit amongst the excessive number of horrors Sherlock kept in the fridge.

“Sherlock!” John called. “Come and throw some of this stuff away. You’ve had these sheep’s bladders for weeks now, clearly you aren’t going to be doing anything with them. And what on earth are you planning to do with snake intestines? Wait, scratch that, I do not what to know.”

Sherlock looked up from where he was stretched out on the sofa. “As a medical man I feel you ought to be more interested in my scientific enquiries.”

“Well I’m not,” John said. “And you can’t keep refreezing these toes, it ruins them. I think I’m just going to throw out anything that’s been in here for more than a week, it’s quite disgusting.”

Sherlock leapt off the sofa at this, striding over to look in the fridge. “Well you can’t throw the toes, the entire point of the experiment is to investigate what happens when tissue is frozen, defrosted and refrozen repeatedly.”

“Because that comes up in cases all the time,” John said.

“It is foolish to plan experiments based solely on previous experiences,” Sherlock said. “People consult with me when they are faced with the unknown, that which has previously been considered impossible.”

“Right,” John said with a sigh, shoving the toes back in the fridge. “What about the sheep’s bladders?”

Sherlock didn’t reply and John looked at him expectantly.

“They looked useful,” Sherlock mumbled finally.

“They looked _useful_ ,” John repeated. He threw up his hands. “Christ. Right, anything else in this fridge that you picked up because it looked _useful_ is being thrown out, right now.”

Sherlock gave John a look of horror. 

“All of it?” Sherlock demanded.

“All of it,” John confirmed.

Sherlock crossed his arms. “I pay half the rent here, I have the right to half of the fridge.”

John laughed. “Given that you would have to throw away a lot more than the things you picked up on a whim to fit it all into half of the fridge, even if I agreed that all of the actual food would live in my half, I don’t think that’s the tack that you want to take.”

“Why is there so much take-away, anyway?” Sherlock said.

John sighed. “I had thought Greg would be coming over tonight.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if Lestrade just lived here,” Sherlock said sulkily. “I have no idea why he insists on living elsewhere, and why you won’t talk him into moving in.” 

“Yes, that would solve our excess take-away problem,” John said glibly. “I’ll let Greg know he needs to pack up his life so we can save some fridge space.” Sherlock glared at him.

“There would clearly be other advantages,” Sherlock said. 

John thought about what it would be like if Lestrade moved in. How it would be different, beyond the additional sex and fridge space. In some ways, he could see how it would be nice. Having breakfast with him. Knowing he was coming home every night. Spending lazy days lounging around, winding up Sherlock. But moving in was a serious step, even in a more typical relationship and it felt far too soon to be considering that.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly. “You can’t just... shag someone for a few weeks and then live together.”

“You moved in with me a day after you met me,” Sherlock said. “And we hadn’t even shagged yet.”

John laughed. He cupped a hand around Sherlock’s cheek and reached up to kiss him softly.

“Bit of a different situation,” John said. “Now, I don’t want take-away to be left unrefrigerated or thrown away, so I’ll make you a deal. You have to throw things out until what’s left fits, and if you want to eat some of it so there is less left, that’s fine with me.”

Sherlock looked between the left-overs and the fridge. He nodded, shutting the fridge door and reaching over to fetch a fork.

John grinned and pulled out his phone to send Lestrade a text.

_Ordered too much take-away tonight (wasn’t sure if you were coming over). Left-overs didn’t fit in the fridge, so I gave Sherlock an ultimatum: either the body parts get chucked out or he eats what doesn’t fit. Guess who is now eating his weight in Chinese?_

*

Even though he hadn’t been upset by Lestrade’s lack of reply the night before, John was quite relieved to receive a text back the next morning, Lestrade explaining he had been caught up in the body dumper case and that he hoped John had taken pictures. John sent a quick text back, and decided to type up a blog post, shrugging off his unexpected disappointment at not getting to tell Lestrade about it while it was still fresh. He had just reached his saving of Sherlock’s life, when he noticed that Sherlock was scowling at his phone.

“Mycroft?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock said. “That imbecile, DI Davies.”

“From the flat murders?” John asked. Sherlock looked up at him.

“Is that what you’re calling this one?” Sherlock said.

“I thought ‘The Smell of Death’,” John said. Sherlock groaned.

“The smells had nothing to do with the case,” Sherlock said.

“Not true,” John pointed out. “If it hadn’t been for the strange smells Theresa Jones wouldn’t have come to you about the deaths.”

Sherlock shook his head, looking quite pained, but apparently decided it wasn’t worth trying to reason with John, as he turned back to his phone.

“So has Davies solved it all then?” John asked.

Sherlock snorted in disbelief. “She has managed to make a complete mess of it and refuses to listen to my explanations of why she is an idiot.”

“I wonder why?” John said, smiling fondly at Sherlock.

*

“Sherlock!” John called out as he walked into the flat the next evening. “Why is my phone full of messages asking for you to stop harassing Scotland Yard?” 

John didn’t mention the message he received from Lestrade asking John to please get Sherlock to calm down and let Davies and her team do their jobs unhindered. He wasn’t sure why, Lestrade had often in the past turned to John to talk sense into Sherlock. Yet somehow this time it felt different. Hearing the exhaustion in Lestrade’s voice, the brusqueness of the message, the feeling that Lestrade trusted John to sort this problem out, had all come together to make John _want_ to fix the problem, to solve it for Lestrade. He understood, on some level, that this wasn’t simply a message for John to pass on, but a message for John, a way for Lestrade to lean on John when he was at his wits end.

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen, looking slightly frazzled, in tatty pyjamas, dressing gown untied and falling off one shoulder, wearing one sock, and running his hands through his hair.

“She won’t _listen_ ,” Sherlock said, sounding frustrated.

“Who? Davies?” John said, walking over to him. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

“She’s blaming the _assassin_ for all of the deaths,” Sherlock said, looking pained. “Even though they’ve clearly not even killed _one_ person yet. And she’s ignoring the landlord entirely.”

John reached out and pulled Sherlock’s arms down, looking at Sherlock firmly. 

“This isn’t your case anymore,” John said. “And if the ten minute message of swearing interspersed with your name on my phone is anything to go by, sending text messages calling everyone at Scotland Yard a moron isn’t helping to get this case solved.”

“But they’re _wrong_ ,” Sherlock said.

“I know,” John said, calmly. He licked his lips thoughtfully. “How about this, you type up all of your findings, with evidence, and all the deductive leaps filled in so humans can follow it, and send it off to Lestrade, who can forward it on to Davies. And then tomorrow we can go in and give our statements.”

Sherlock frowned at John but nodded, and John pulled Sherlock down for a quick kiss.

*

John hadn’t realised how much easier dealing with Scotland Yard was when Lestrade was with them, until he spent two hours trying to convince a sergeant that he had ended up in the suspect’s flat in a normal, legal way, whilst also trying to keep Sherlock from irritating anyone likely to punch him.

“No, really, Sherlock was just showing off-” John started to say, stopping as he heard Sherlock’s irritated voice rising again. “Hang on.”

The sergeant protested, but John left the room to catch Sherlock saying, “...obvious to even the most moronic of your team, but apparently I was wrong.”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John hissed. Sherlock looked at him.

“John, they think the _neighbours_ are involved,” Sherlock said. He turned back to the Davies. “Did you even look at the window boxes?”

Davies opened her mouth to protest, but John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him out of the room.

“We’re giving our statements and leaving,” John said. “That’s all.”

“But John-” Sherlock said.

“No,” John said. “That’s it. That’s all. You’ve given Greg your theories to pass on, we’re leaving it to the police to finish this off.”

Sherlock frowned and John brushed a hand down his arm, giving him a sympathetic look. “If Davies won’t listen, insulting and harassing her isn’t going to help. Give it a week and if she still hasn’t worked it all out, we’ll see if Greg can help.”

Sherlock heaved a great put-upon sigh. “Fine. When all the tenants suddenly move, I’m sure someone will notice.”

“Thank you,” John said, giving Sherlock’s arm a gentle squeeze.

*

“Bored,” Sherlock proclaimed, not two hours later. He threw himself down on the couch. Then he sat up and looked at John. “Fancy a shag?”

“Lestrade’s still tied up with that body dumper case,” John replied absently.

“I know,” Sherlock said. He climbed over the coffee table and grabbed the newspaper John was reading, throwing it aside and crowding John against the back of the armchair, bringing his lips to John’s ear, whispering, “You know, it is possible to have sex with just two people.”

“Oh,” John said, pleased and surprised. He had sort of assumed the post-case shag was a one off, a way for them to burn off the excess adrenaline and celebrate Sherlock’s genius and John’s quick reflexes and the fact that they were somehow still so very alive. Clearly Sherlock had been anticipating that Lestrade would be dealing with the case, and then joining them afterwards, as has become the standard procedure to ensure that Sherlock would be cooperative and that no more police officers were suspended for punching him. With no Lestrade, but his veins still pumping with exhilaration, John thought Sherlock had just settled for having sex with just John.

But now, Sherlock had practically thrown himself into John’s lap for no reason beyond boredom. It was strangely flattering, the thought that Sherlock would start to feel the pain of a racing brain deprived of occupation and decide he wanted to fill the void with John. Feeling a rush of tenderness for Sherlock, John wrapped his arms around him, turning his head to bring their lips together, kissing him gently.

“Is it, now?” John said, breaking the kiss reluctantly, but feeling self-conscious for revelling in the romance he found in a shag between friends. “I think we’d better try it out then.”

Sherlock grinned and moved off John, pulling him up and dragging him into the bedroom. Resolutely not attaching significance to Sherlock’s casual hand-holding, John pulled his hand away and started undressing Sherlock. 

At some point, John had grown to enjoy undressing Sherlock for more than just the delicious reward of a getting to see him naked. Every touch filled him with desire, yes, but there was a sort of headiness in the trust it implied, the knowledge that Sherlock must be truly fond of him to permit John to indulge in such a mundane action. This was amplified by Sherlock mirroring his actions. Sherlock was not moving hastily, his fingers almost lingering as he slid them down John’s chest to unbutton his trousers, and his gaze spoke volumes about his enjoyment in having John like this. There was no wonder in it, but rather, a sense of rightness. As though it was perfectly natural for Sherlock to be touching John. As though John belonged to Sherlock. Belonged _with_ Sherlock, by his side, in his bed, the two of them made to be together. 

With a jolt of guilt, John’s thoughts turned to Lestrade. 

For a long time, John hadn’t wanted to let people into his life, and then he had met Sherlock and it had felt so very right to exist as the two of them against the rest of the world. He hadn’t let anyone else in and hadn’t wanted to. But when Sherlock asked Lestrade to join them, he realised he had been wrong. John and Sherlock had not been living in isolation, however much they allowed themselves to, or indeed denied themselves from, accepting help from people in their life, they had been there. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, and of course, Lestrade. Now that he had him, John didn’t _want_ to give up Lestrade and go back to being simply John and Sherlock, alone in the world.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock demanded, sounding mostly cross, but John could hear the concern underneath. “You’ve gone all tense and stressed. I don’t like it. That is not conducive to good sex.”

“Sorry,” John said, smiling softly at Sherlock’s abruptness. “I was just... thinking it would be nice if Greg were here too.”

“And despite you being the one to insist we had a conversation about it being acceptable to sleep together without him, you’re now feeling guilty,” Sherlock concluded. He sighed. “I don’t know why you insist on making this so complicated.”

“Right, no, I’m sorry,” John said quickly. “We can just- get back to it.”

John started to push Sherlock’s shirt from his shoulders, trying to dismiss his feelings of guilt and concentrate on the task at hand, but Sherlock stopped him, grabbing his wrists.

“It’s quite simple,” Sherlock said. “The ideal would of course be having Lestrade with us, but it would be absurd to imagine that we will all be available every time sex is desired, and there is nothing wrong with sex between just two people. Feeling guilty is therefore illogical. You’re not bothered by the thought of me having sex with just Lestrade, are you?”

“No,” John said. His mind flashed to the memory of seeing Sherlock and Lestrade curled up together in sleep. “No, that’s fine. More than fine.”

Sherlock nodded. “Has Lestrade said or done anything to imply that he doesn’t like the idea of the two of us together?”

“No,” John said. “I think he assumed we were at it like rabbits, actually, and wasn’t upset by the thought.”

Sherlock paused for a few moments, before asking, voice carefully neutral, “Would you prefer it if this relationship didn’t involve Lestrade any longer?”

“No,” John said instantly, the word coming out sharper than he had intended it to. Sherlock sagged a little in relief.

“Good,” Sherlock said. “So there’s no problem.”

John thought about this. Lestrade was caught up in a big case, and John knew firsthand how involved police work could be. He was clearly spending most of his time focussed on that, and the rest trying to keep himself sane. It saddened John slightly that Lestrade apparently didn’t see 221 as a place he could come to unwind, but it was unsurprising. John might revel in its chaos, but he had admitted to himself long ago that he was a bit different from most people in some ways. It was a pity that they had to leave Lestrade out of not just their sex lives, by their day-to-day goings on, but such was life when you were involved with a man like Lestrade. 

Sherlock was rubbing his hands along John’s back, and John started to relax under the touch, letting himself enjoy the sensation of Sherlock so close to him, so focussed on him, and slowly he felt the guilt seep out of him.

“Much better,” Sherlock said and resumed undressing John. 

John felt a rather taken aback and little embarrassed that Sherlock had managed to sort out John’s conflicted feelings about their arrangement, that he had needed Sherlock to do so, that Sherlock was apparently better at relationships than John was. Still, those feelings were nothing compared to the absolute need to be kissing Sherlock right then for caring enough to do it, for understanding John so well. John pulled Sherlock into a hungry kiss into which he poured more affection and appreciation than he meant to, and was quite pleased when Sherlock returned it just as enthusiastically, despite how much more complicated it made undressing.

Once naked, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, steering him to the bed and nipping John’s bottom lip with approval when John’s hands wound themselves in Sherlock’s hair. They tumbled down and Sherlock pushed John so he was lying fully on the bed, and then settled himself between John’s spread legs. They lay together, wrapped in each other, every inch of skin touching, John unable to stop stroking up and down Sherlock’s back, Sherlock surprisingly content to ignore their growing erections and simply hold John and kiss him.

Gradually their kissing grew more heated, and John found his hands wandering down to squeeze Sherlock’s arse, which Sherlock took as a sign to sit back on his knees and reach over to the bedside table and pull out a bottle of lubricant and a condom. John shoved a pillow under his hips and bent his knees, unable to stop the soppy smile that spread across his face, touched when Sherlock flashed him an equally sweet smile before looking down and sliding on the condom.

John wanted to say something snarky, say something at all as Sherlock started preparing him, but could think of nothing, and for once Sherlock seemed content with silence. When Sherlock entered him, John gasped with pleasure, grateful to have this physical sensation send his mind blank, and he pulled Sherlock down for a kiss, shuddering as he gave himself over to his arousal and his joy from being able to drown himself in Sherlock.   
*

“How can Lestrade’s case be taking so long to solve?” Sherlock said, draping himself along John’s back as John made tea. 

“It’s only been a bit over a week,” John said, turning his head to kiss the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “You’ve had cases that have taken longer than that to solve.”

“Yes, but they were _interesting_ ,” Sherlock said. He dropped his chin on John’s shoulder, watching as John fished the teabags out of the mug. “They’re meant to give Lestrade the interesting cases.”

“Next time we’re at the Yard, you can put in a complaint,” John said. He shrugged his shoulder to dislodge Sherlock’s chin and went to the fridge to grab the milk.

“The crime lord landlord would have been caught much sooner if Lestrade had been in charge,” Sherlock grumbled, settling himself back on John. “He would have listened to my solution.”

“He did,” John reminded him, splashing milk into the two mugs of tea. “And convinced Davies to take you seriously despite the fact she thought you were playing silly buggers with her team.”  
“Lestrade wouldn’t have thought that,” Sherlock said.

“No, well, you’ve never told Greg that you accidentally broke into a flat filled with illegal weapons because you meant to break into the flat a floor up, and weren’t paying enough attention,” John said. He spooned sugar into Sherlock’s tea. “So I think Davies can be forgiven in this instance.”

John handed Sherlock his tea and they walked into the living room, John moving to sit on one end of the sofa, so Sherlock could stretch out beside him, head resting in John’s lap. As John slid his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and started to play with his curls, he was suddenly struck by how very normal this affectionate cuddling had become, and how very strange that was. He couldn’t remember when they had started sharing these physical signs of affection, separate to any kind of sexual interaction, but he found he didn’t actually mind it. If anything, he hated the thought that they might stop, that Sherlock might notice and they would go back to strictly platonic when they were not shagging. It didn’t seem likely that they would stop, given how much they apparently enjoyed it, and while John might manage to miss this sort of thing, there was no way Sherlock would. So apparently he didn’t mind it either. 

Deciding it didn’t really matter if they were both fine with it, and with any luck wouldn’t have to talk about it, John tried to push the matter out of his mind. Except he realised it might be awkward when Lestrade finally wrapped up his case and started coming over again. John didn’t want to make Lestrade feel like he was a third wheel, but it was pretty hard to explain how Sherlock and John weren’t actually a couple, when they spent so much of their time draping over one another and kissing. Of all people, Lestrade would understand that Sherlock wasn’t interested in committing to a proper relationship with John, and that having Lestrade around allowed them to be together without actually being together. But there was no way John could tell Lestrade that. It wasn’t even particularly true. Not any more. Hell, if John thought about how things were when they started, it wasn’t ever _really_ like that. 

Of course, now that they had spent a week together, mostly wrapped up together, just the two of them, John was starting to think that maybe they really could be together, properly. Without Lestrade. He grimaced at the thought. It was far too soon to know if he and Sherlock could work, anyway, and he was beginning realise he didn’t want that now. He liked what they had with Lestrade. He knew it was a casual arrangement, and it scared him a little not to know how long it would last, how long the other two would still be interested in what they had, but he refused to dwell on it. It was working for now, and he was going to enjoy it while he still could.

“You might be right,” John said. 

“That’s statistically likely,” Sherlock replied. “What about?”

“Greg,” John said. “Him... not being here, not being around. I don’t like it either.”

Sherlock sat up. 

“Between the two of us we ought to be able to get him to move in,” Sherlock said.

“No, I still think that’s a bit too soon,” John said. “And if he doesn’t want to, we shouldn’t force him. But I think we should try and get him to come around a bit more. I think maybe we should talk to him, see what’s stopping him from coming ‘round.”

“Does that mean going to his flat?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” John said. “It’s not really the kind of conversation he can have at work, and it’s a bit much pressure to make him talk about it here.”

Sherlock sighed. “Well, _I_ can’t go there, of course.”

“Why not?” John asked, frowning. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want to give him the impression I like having him living elsewhere. You’ve already gone and spent the night there, so it’s too late for us to present a united front on that.”

Sherlock gave John a disapproving stare and John rolled his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t been stinking up the house,” John said.

“I was solving a case,” Sherlock said.

“Of course, and it turned out to be very useful for that, didn’t it?” John said. Sherlock glared at him.

*

_Hey, just wondering if I could come over tonight?_

_Yeah, that’s fine. I should be home by 7, but let’s say 8 just to be safe. Sherlock destroying the flat again?_

_Ta. Nah, he’s only filling the bathtub with seaweed - which is business as usual here. Just wanted to talk._

Lestrade stared at the text with a sinking sensation. He had known this was coming from the start. If anything, he’d been expecting it to come a lot sooner than this. But that didn’t stop the disappointment rising in his throat, and the feeling that he had managed to ruin it for himself somehow. Which was ridiculous, he’d been careful not to intrude too much, to ask too much, to expect too much. Sherlock and John wanting to be together was fairly inevitable, and he was genuinely pleased for them. He just wished they could have continued to include him every now and again. The strength of his reaction surprised Lestrade, and he wondered how he had managed to get himself so invested in a bit of casual sex with two mates. He didn’t have time to dwell on it for long, though, as work quickly demanded his attention.

*

“Christ, you look awful,” John said when Lestrade opened the door. He was a little taken aback when John pressed a quick kiss to his lips before shedding his coat, and regretfully thought about how much he would miss kissing John.

“Cheers,” Lestrade said dryly. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Feel free to if you haven’t, though.”

“No, no,” Lestrade said. “I ate at work. I was just going to offer you some left-over Indian if you hadn’t.”

They stood in the hallway, nodding awkwardly at each other for a few moments before John grinned and pulled Lestrade into a more thorough kiss.

“I’ve missed you, you bastard,” John said. “Leaving me alone with Sherlock for nearly a week?”

John shook his head, and Lestrade felt himself relax. Apparently John hadn’t come over to break things off with him.

“Yes, well, I’ll have words with the body dumper,” Lestrade said.

“How’s that going?” John asked. Lestrade shook his head.

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s an absolute mess of paperwork and lawyers and today we discovered there’s a copycat out there.”

John groaned sympathetically. Lestrade told John more about the case as they wandered into the living room, settling on the couch, John surprising Lestrade once more by pulling him down to lie down, head in John’s lap, and giving his temples a massage. By the time Lestrade finished catching John up on his week, he felt surprisingly relaxed, and found he could laugh easily at stories of Sherlock’s antics.

“Thanks for getting Sherlock to leave Davies alone,” Lestrade said. “She’s a good copper, but she’s very by the book, protective of her team and no-one had warned her about Sherlock.”

“It’s fine,” John said. “I think he was actually a bit upset to not have you there and was taking it out on her.”

“He does like familiar faces,” Lestrade said, not wanting to say anything more personal. 

John nudged Lestrade into sitting up and said, “He’s not the only one,” before pulling Lestrade into a kiss. 

Even though it had only been a week since Lestrade had slept with John, the way John was kissing him, the way his hands cupped his hips, moving gently down his thighs, and then up to explore his waist, the way he moved his whole body in closer, pressing their chests together, all felt very different. John’s movements spoke of a tenderness Lestrade had only caught glimpses of before, and there was a softness that made Lestrade wonder briefly if this was in fact John saying goodbye. He dismissed the thought instantly, as there was also an edge of possession in John’s comfortable manoeuvring and exploration of Lestrade’s body, and though John seemed content to move slowly, his kiss was filled with desire.

John pulled away, giving Lestrade a smile as he gestured his head towards the bedroom, and resumed kissing him. They stumbled, kissing and smiling and laughing into Lestrade’s bedroom. Undressing each other was a clumsy, but surprisingly sensual affair, John pressing kisses to the bits skin he was exposing, giving little shivers of delight as Lestrade ran his fingers lightly down John’s chest, over his shoulders, brushing tantalisingly close to his cock as Lestrade stripped him of his pants and trousers.

John sat down on the edge of the bed, tugging Lestrade down next to him, and giving him another thorough, slightly possessive kiss, before pushing Lestrade back.

“Lie down,” John said. “On your stomach.”

Lestrade stretched out and watched as John rummaged through his bedside table’s drawers, feeling his cock throb as John pulled out a condom, some lubricant, and, to his surprise, massage oil he had forgotten he had bought in a fit of optimism after his divorce. John straddled his hips, settling his weight on his knees. He could feel John’s cock pressing gently into his arse, but somehow the feeling of John’s hands moving over his back seemed far more intimate. John was talking to him, but not about anything in particular, so Lestrade left himself drift on the sensations of John’s hands, John’s voice, John’s cock, and apparently managed to fall asleep because he woke in darkness, John was opening the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade asked, voice slightly blurred with sleep.

“Just going to have a quick wank in the loo,” John whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“Christ, I’m sorry,” Lestrade said. John shrugged.

“It’s fine,” John said. “My fault for being such an excellent masseuse, I suppose. You’re not the first to fall asleep under these magic fingers.”

Lestrade grinned and sat up, his neglected cock starting to take an interest in the proceedings. “Come back here.”

John hopped on the bed and crawled back to Lestrade, moving in to kiss him. He pulled Lestrade’s hand down to wrap around his cock, and placed his own on Lestrade’s.

He didn’t know why, but Lestrade was fairly certain that John had planned something more elaborate than sitting in the dark wanking each other, Lestrade still half asleep and John almost painfully desperate. He was curious as to what John had been trying to do, but feeling John come apart under his hand, his kisses growing needy, and his fingers moving clumsily over Lestrade’s cock, Lestrade felt so satisfied, so full of affection and so wanted, he found he didn’t mind that he had fallen asleep and foiled John’s efforts.

 

After he had panted out his own orgasm, and John had fetched a cloth to clean them up, Lestrade stretched out and pulled John into his arms, feeling relaxed, sated and content. In this state, and with John in his arms, able to feel his breath grow slow and even, and his own racing heart soothe and settle, Lestrade was left feeling merely curious about what John had come over to discuss.

“I thought you said you came here to talk,” Lestrade said, brushing his hand over John’s waist.

“I got distracted,” John said, grinning and kissing Lestrade’s shoulder.

“I thought you might have come here to end it with me, actually,” Lestrade said, trying to make his voice sound light, and found he was glad they were lying in the dark.

John shook his head. “No. Almost the opposite, I suppose.”

Lestrade made a questioning noise and John took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When he still hadn’t said anything after the fourth breath, Lestrade gave his hip a gentle squeeze.

“Well, I’m fairly certain you’re not about to ask me to marry you,” Lestrade said. John huffed out a startled laugh.

“No,” John said. He hesitated a few more moments before saying, “Sherlock’s still keen for you to move in with us.”

Lestrade tensed. He found the idea that Sherlock was so desperate to have him around flattering and endearing, but he knew it would feel as though he were intruding, and he wasn’t sure their arrangement would survive if he moved in.

“I told him it’s a bit too soon, a bit too serious,” John added quickly and Lestrade relaxed.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said. “I mean, it’s... nice, I suppose, but it would be a disaster.”

“It would be better if you could come around more often,” John said carefully. “Only when you want to, of course, but even just this week’s felt a bit too long to go without seeing you. I thought maybe if we gave you a key, you could just come and go as you like. We might even be able to talk Sherlock into giving you some space in his wardrobe, so you don’t have to come back here if you stay the night and you have work.”

“Oh,” Lestrade said. “That’d be... that’d be great.”

He tightened his grip around John, touched by the gesture, by the notion that even though he had Sherlock, John had missed him this week. John reached up to kiss Lestrade and then settled back down, waiting for Lestrade to fall back asleep before slipping out of bed and texting Sherlock.

*

The next evening, Lestrade came straight from work to 221b, using his key to let himself in, feeling a little as though he were intruding. The warm smile and offer of tea he was greeted with from John, and the way Sherlock sat up and gave him a very pleased look rid him of this fear immediately. He grinned back at them, accepting John’s offer, and he moved to sit in one of the arm chairs, startled when Sherlock stood up and pulled him over, placing him firmly on one end of the sofa, before lying down beside him, head in Lestrade’s lap. 

“Short on pillows, then, are we?” Lestrade asked, settling a hand down to rub circles on Sherlock’s chest.

“John was typing up a blog post,” Sherlock said. “For a very broad definition of typing.”

“Watch it,” John said, sounding casually threatening. “A lot of people read my blog, I can make or break your reputation with one sentence.”

“So I would have a while before I needed to worry, then?” Sherlock said.

“Greg, pinch him for me, would you?” John asked. 

Lestrade slid his hand down Sherlock’s chest and gave his waist a sharp pinch, earning him an offended look from Sherlock. He ran his hand soothingly over Sherlock’s waist and felt a strange impulse to kiss him. Sherlock had apparently recognised Lestrade’s impulse, as he lifted himself up to within kissing distance and so Lestrade leaned down to close the distance. When he broke the kiss, Lestrade looked up to see John standing in front of him with a cup of tea, and felt a brief moment of guilt. John, however, seemed pleased with him and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and then dropped one on Sherlock’s forehead, before handing Lestrade the mug and walking over to seat himself in front of his laptop.

The evening passed in easy, companionable silence, John pecking at his laptop, Sherlock deep in thought, and Lestrade staring absently at the television, feeling the stress of the day seep out of him. When he headed off to bed, Lestrade was surprised by Sherlock and John joining him soon after, curling up around him, tangling their bodies comfortably, and Lestrade was spared from having to explain that he just wasn’t up for anything other than sleeping.

*

It was surprising how quickly they fell into a routine, particularly as no two nights ever seemed to be the same. When Lestrade let himself into 221b, he never knew if he was going to be walking into a night of domestic bliss like the first night, or the chaos of Sherlock performing what he dubiously called ‘experiments’ in the kitchen. If John would be shouting at Sherlock for some flatmate faux pas he committed, sparing Lestrade a smile and a greeting before continuing to berate Sherlock for leaving frogs in the breadbox or fungus in the freezer. Or if they would be arguing over the rules of a game, pieces scattered everywhere. One night he found 221b empty, and surprised himself at how easily he made himself at home. Another, Sherlock was off arguing with his brother apparently, and they took advantage of his absence, eating too much take out and then sharing a long bath. 

A few days after John had given Lestrade the key to 221b, Sherlock had demanded he be allowed to see the case files for the body dumper, and he had thrown himself at it with an enthusiasm that had quickly been swallowed by the sheer lack of elegance. There was no puzzle, no mystery, no impossible questions that needed to be answered, and that night John found himself trying to soothe two cross detectives. 

As the case dragged on, Lestrade seemed to go beyond simple tiredness, growing exhausted with the world at large and disappointed with his inability to do more. It still warmed him every time he pulled out his key for 221b and fell into the strangely relaxing atmosphere of John puttering around, typing out blog posts and making tea, Sherlock exploding things in the kitchen, sulking on the sofa or playing alternately beautiful and discordant melodies on his violin. John took to drawing him baths and occasionally he and Sherlock was sit on the side of the tub and they would talk until the water grew cold. Sherlock cooked on occasion, mysteriously producing gourmet meals one night and inedible slop the next. Some nights they all fell into bed together, pulling at each other’s clothes, trading kisses and exploring freely with hands and mouths. Most nights, however, Lestrade was simply interested in sleeping, and he felt strangely gratified when he would wake in the middle of the night to find John and Sherlock tangled sleepily beside him.

When they case finally wrapped up, John insisted they all go out for dinner to celebrate, the past few weeks having been taxing on all of them.

*

“New rule,” Sherlock declared, sounding more than a little tipsy as they stumbled out of the taxi. “You are no longer allowed to take boring cases.”

John made a noise of affirmation as he fumbled with unlocking the front door, Lestrade wrapping a steadying hand under Sherlock’s elbow.

“If need be,” Sherlock continued, “I will go out and commit interesting crimes just for you.”

“Cheers, mate,” Lestrade said, clapping Sherlock on the back.

Once they had successfully navigated the stairs, Sherlock stopped them in the landing and turned to John.

“Kiss Lestrade with the distraction kiss,” Sherlock said. He turned to Lestrade. “It’s very good.”

John nodded and shoved Lestrade against the door.

“Ow,” Lestrade started to say but then John was kissing him, loudly and sloppily. John tried to pin Lestrade’s hands to the door, but found that was difficult and braced himself against the door instead. He was just feeling as though he had reached his stride with his distraction kiss, Lestrade’s hands massaging his arse helping a lot with that, when Sherlock opened the door and they fell into a heap on the floor, giggling uncontrollably.

The rest of the night was a blur, but when John woke the next morning, it was in their bed, naked, and with pleasant memories of mouths and hands and laughter. Lestrade was sprawled out beside him, snoring lightly, but Sherlock was gone. John groaned as he crawled out of bed, his head aching, and he pulled on a dressing gown before heading out to the kitchen, having decided that being seen stark naked by Mrs Hudson once had been more times than he ever needed.

“Morning,” John said, spotting Sherlock lying limply on the sofa, one hand draped dramatically over his face. John walked over to drop a kiss on his forehead before returning to the kitchen to fill the kettle. “You might want to put clothes on, Mrs Hudson doesn’t need to see all that.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. John swallowed some aspirin and put some toast on. By the time he finished fussing around in the kitchen, bring tea and toast to set down in front of Sherlock, John felt his head start to clear.

“Budge up,” John said, and sighing and moaning Sherlock lifted himself up enough to let John slide on the sofa, Sherlock flopping his head back down, tugging John’s hands to settle in his hair.

Lestrade emerged a little while later, haphazardly dressed, but looking far too refreshed.

“Morning,” he said cheerfully.

“There’s tea and toast on the bench,” John said.

“Oh, ta,” Lestrade said, grabbing them and walking over to the sofa. “Clothing optional, is it?”  
“Clothes seemed too much effort,” Sherlock said, lifting his feet so Lestrade could sit. 

They ate in silence, Sherlock sulkily accepting bits of toast John tore up and shoved in his face, Lestrade giving John fond and amused looks as he did so. 

“We’re in a relationship, aren’t we?” John asked casually, breaking the silence just as his tea was starting to grow cold.

“Well spotted,” Sherlock said, eyes closed and sounding utterly relaxed, if also rather condescending. Lestrade tensed and made a movement as though he wanted to get up, but had forgotten Sherlock’s legs in his laps.

“All three of us, I mean,” John said, reaching a hand out to squeeze Lestrade’s hand, though he continued to look straight ahead, studying the fireplace absently.

“As ever, your counting skills astound me,” Sherlock said.

“Was I the only one who didn’t notice?” John asked.

“Lestrade is still struggling with the concept,” Sherlock said.

“Right,” John said. “Glad to know I’m not the only idiot here.”

At this, John did turn to look at Lestrade, giving him a fond, half apologetic, half amused look that Lestrade tentatively returned.

“And we’re looking at a sort of a permanent, long time thing, then, are we?” John asked, his gaze turning questioning.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, his disdainful tone at odds with the fond way he turned to nuzzle into John’s belly.

Lestrade looked at John long and hard before saying, “Yeah, I think we are.”

“Good,” John said, nodding slowly and letting his lips curve into a pleased smile before returning to his tea.


End file.
